The Promise (9 page)

Despite the risks involved, the prospect of staying on in Bowness-on-Windermere and making a clean break from all the painful memories of the war and London was most tempting. She felt a fluttery feeling inside just thinking about it, like a butterfly sensing escape.

Was it possible to persuade her mother to come too? Chrissie didn’t feel she could abandon her entirely. Or could she perhaps find some other companion for Vanessa? Even if that were possible, a move to the Lakes would not release her from the responsibility of helping her mother financially. Chrissie knew she would need to take that cost into account when working out the figures.

She went to sit on the promenade for a while, to think. There were also practical issues to consider. Where would she live? She couldn’t afford to stay long at Rosegill Hall. Even if she confessed to who she really was, Chrissie had no wish to encroach upon her grandmother’s goodwill by expecting to be accommodated rent-free. That wouldn’t be right.

She gave a mental shrug. OK, so there were a few problems still to be ironed out, but she was perfectly capable of resolving them, wasn’t she? Ben certainly thought so. She turned her mind deliberately away from Ben, not wishing to acknowledge that he had any influence over her decision to move north. It was simply that she
needed to stand on her own two feet. She was twenty-one, for goodness’ sake!

Chrissie found herself back at the shop, gazing through the dusty window, striving to judge the size of the sales area. It was only small, but then she couldn’t afford large premises. She would need to find out what rent was payable, what the rates were, heating, lighting and other costs involved. She’d have to take all of that into account before coming to a decision. Plus whatever she would need to contribute to keep her mother afloat. There was always risk with any new business, but wasn’t it at least worth a try? She’d some savings put by, and could advertise in the local paper for people wishing to dispose of their old books, which would provide her with an initial stock. Maybe she could sell a few gifts and cards for the tourists as well, walking guides and maps, and the pressed-flower cards and bookmarks she made, which cost next to nothing.

The core of excitement inside her grew the more Chrissie thought about it. It would be her dream come true. There was a F
OR
S
ALE
notice stuck on the inside of the window, and taking pen and paper from her bag she noted the address of the agent. Maybe she’d pop in and have a word sometime.

Chrissie glanced at her watch; nearly four o’clock. Goodness, she’d wasted an entire afternoon just walking, thinking and idling, watching the boats on the lake and generally doing nothing at all. Oh, but it was lovely to be able to do as she pleased for once, without fear of criticism, a lecture from Peter, or the responsibility of
rushing home to make tea for her mother. She felt rather like a naughty child playing truant from school. And since she was gasping for a cup of tea, she might as well go the whole hog and treat herself to a cream tea. Could you get such a thing, she wondered, with rationing still in place?

But first, since the agent’s office was only a little way up the hill on Lake Road, maybe she’d just pop in and collect full particulars. Armed with all the details, she’d be much better able to make the right decision.

The letting agent saw no reason why Chrissie couldn’t take on the tenancy of the shop for a two-year lease as a trial period. ‘It comes with a two-bedroom flat above. It’s small, unfurnished and been unoccupied for some years, so it will need a good clean, and no doubt a lick of paint, but the property has bags of character.’ He handed over a key there and then. ‘Go and look it over, see what you think.’

Chrissie did just that, and thought it perfect. The shop was indeed small, a tiny kitchen and toilet at the back, no stockroom, but big enough for her purpose. And although it was as dirty and uncared for as the agent had warned, the flat above had great potential. It was spread over three different levels: living area, two bedrooms, plus the loft in the roof which would be useful for storage. There were beamed ceilings, and each floor sloped, sometimes
to port, sometimes to starboard, and the three flights of stairs seemed to tilt in every direction at once.

Chrissie loved it on sight. With a thorough spring clean, curtains at the windows, and her bits and pieces brought from London, she’d be snug as the proverbial bug in a rug.

She studied the little shop’s particulars, did some quick calculations and felt reasonably confident she could afford it, if this was what she wanted. All she had to do was decide, then summon up sufficient confidence to call in the agent’s office and agree terms. What was so hard about that?

When she returned the key she told him she was seriously interested but needed a little time to think it over and deal with some issues at home first. He agreed to keep her informed should there be any other offers, and feeling happier than she’d felt in months, Chrissie positively bounced as she made her way back to Rosegill Hall.

She couldn’t help wondering what her grandmother’s reaction would be to her taking a shop in town. But then Georgia Cowper was unaware of who she really was. Chrissie was already regretting not having told her before now. When she did reveal her true identity, she was going to have some explaining to do.

Nevertheless, the truth must be told, no matter how much her mother might protest, and sooner rather than later. If she was to stay on here, how could she go on living a lie?

Summer lethargy and indecision seeped into every relaxed muscle. Chrissie felt filled with lassitude. These last years
grieving for Tom, and dealing with her difficult mother, had put such a strain on her that it was a relief and a delight to have nothing at all to do, no pressure of any sort. She felt so relaxed and content she was reluctant to spoil the mood by worrying about anything unpleasant. Consequently she’d put Peter’s bad reaction to her rejection of him right out of her mind. Nor was she quite ready to make a decision about the shop. Not just yet. It had even been some time since she’d done anything about this supposed mission to bring about a reconciliation between her mother and grandmother. Right at this moment such an enormous undertaking suddenly seemed quite beyond her.

But Ben wasn’t for letting her off so easily. ‘Well, have you made up your mind yet about staying?’ he asked, as the end of her stay was in sight. They were sitting on a rock, their shorts and shirts rather grubby from a long walk over Claife Heights, and their feet looking like dead white fish, as they’d removed boots and sweaty socks to dangle them in the deliciously cold water.

‘You’re fishing again, and I’m still thinking.’

Ben grinned, having learnt there was no hurrying her. He rather admired this caution in her which seemed to indicate a certain lack of confidence. It made her seem rather vulnerable and sweet, although he hoped her indecision had nothing to do with this chap, Peter, who hovered somewhere in the background.

‘There’ll be a fishing competition of the more normal variety at our own little water festival the last Saturday in August,’ he casually informed her, deciding it was politic
to change the subject. ‘Guddling for trout for the kids, speedboat and raft races, sailing competitions, and the usual prizes for the best fancy dress and decorated floats in the procession. Any ideas for a costume? I assume you’ll be taking part.’

‘Hmm?’ She was only half listening, her mind racing as Chrissie reminded herself that this Saturday she was supposed to check out of Rosegill Hall, and she still hadn’t made up her mind about anything. Time was fast running out.

‘You could be a mermaid.’

Chrissie laughed. ‘I think I’d need access to my feet.’

‘Lady Godiva, then?’

She scooped up a handful of water and splashed him, soaking his hair and the front of his shirt. ‘You’re getting far too cheeky, Ben Gorran.’

‘Ouch! You minx,’ and he splashed her back.

This naturally provoked a water fight which ended with them both falling into the lake, splashing each other madly until Chrissie managed to swim away on smooth strong strokes.

For a moment she thought she’d escaped him, but then suddenly he came up beneath her and pulled her down under the water. Chrissie could see him grinning as he tried to grab hold of her, but managing to extricate herself she came up gasping for air. Barely had she caught her breath than he pulled her under a second time. His arms went around her and this time he held her tight in his arms. She could feel the heat of him even through the biting cold of the water. With his face just inches from
her own she felt certain he was about to kiss her, knowing that she wanted him to kiss her, very badly, saw how his gaze focused directly on her mouth and that he wasn’t smiling now. Her lungs were nearly bursting, her feet freezing, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to swim away. It felt rather as if they were in a secret world, one throbbing with some indescribable emotion. But then he seemed to think better of it, and pulling her with him, struck out for the surface.

They came up together, splashing madly and gasping for breath as he helped her back to the shore where Chrissie flopped on to the rocks, exhausted.

What had just happened down there? Why had he hesitated? Had he considered kissing her, then changed his mind? Had he feared rejection, or decided he didn’t want to get involved?

Chrissie stared ruefully down at the pool of water gathering about her as she sat huddled on the rocks, shivering in her dripping shirt and shorts. Keeping her voice deliberately bright, as not for a moment would she allow him to see her disappointment, she said, ‘Now see what you’ve done, you idiot. I’m soaked through!’

Giving what might pass for an apology, Ben tossed her a towel.

‘I really don’t think that’s going to help much.’

‘Strip off those wet clothes and rub yourself down properly, then.’

‘Oh, I do like your optimism. No one could deny that you aren’t a trier. Or maybe just trying,’ she teased, striving to shake off her misery.

Down there in the water she’d loved being held so close in his arms. Had he simply been teasing her? Was it all just a silly joke? Maybe she’d misinterpreted his intentions because Peter was so much more serious. And having carefully kept Peter at arm’s length Chrissie knew that her experience of men was limited, other than her beloved Tom. Nor had she given Ben the slightest hint of encouragement, keeping him very much at a safe distance. Had he taken that attitude as rejection?

But what was she so afraid of, exactly? Commitment? More likely the pain of loss if she allowed herself to fall in love again and it didn’t work out. Had he read fear in her face, was that why he’d turned away? Or maybe it was all in her imagination and Ben hadn’t felt any urge to kiss her at all.

She glanced up, watching as he shook himself like a young puppy after a bath, combing his fingers through wet hair, and silently cursed herself for feeling this aching need. What were his intentions? That irrepressible grin was firmly back in place and nothing in his cheerful expression gave the slightest indication of his true feelings. He certainly didn’t look overwhelmed by passion, or yearning with desire.

Ben was having great difficulty in keeping his hands off her. She looked so beautiful with the light of the setting sun turning her soft brown hair to a glowing gold, and the way her wet shirt clung to her breasts showed off her curvaceous figure to perfection. He longed to pull her down on to the rough shingle and make love to her there and then.

Oblivious to this need, and determined not to show her own momentary weakness, Chrissie made a great show of hugging herself in the towel, although there was no necessity to exaggerate her shivering as she was indeed cold. ‘It’s a miracle we didn’t drown,’ she teased. ‘Stay in the lake a moment too long and it could easily have been our last. You play reckless games, Ben Gorran.’

The cold didn’t seem to have affected him one bit and he laughed, arching one brow in wry amusement. ‘You don’t fancy another swim, then?’

She got quickly to her feet and started to back away. ‘No, I do not. One wetting is quite enough, thanks all the same. I think we should go. Now! I feel the urgent need for a hot bath. And if I die of pneumonia before we get there, it will all be your fault.’

His expression turned rueful. Ben knew he’d messed up, but for the life of him couldn’t think how. One minute they’d been having fun, flirting and laughing, the next he was getting the cold brush-off. He certainly hadn’t failed to notice the ‘don’t touch’ message he thought he’d seen in her eyes down there in the murky depths of the lake, and had quickly changed his mind about stealing a kiss. Difficult as it might be, it seemed safer to play it cool. Ben was determined to listen to that wise voice of caution in his head because he really didn’t want to risk losing her. He picked up his jacket and wrapped it about her shoulders. ‘We’d best make tracks, then. When you’re dry and warm again, how about I treat you to a fish supper?’

‘Just for a change, you mean?’ She strived to match his careless tone, to recapture their earlier happy mood.

‘You can buy the beer.’

‘OK, you’re on.’ She breathed an inward sigh of relief that at least they were still friends.

‘And you’ll come to the festival?’

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll come as Sarah Gamp from
Martin Chuzzlewit
, just in case there’s another wetting.’

‘Then I’ll be Fagin. We’ll make the most handsome couple of the day.’ They both laughed at this picture of themselves, but his choice of words, and the fact he referred to them as a couple, for some reason set her pulses racing yet again.

Chrissie had got into the habit of helping Georgia for an hour or two each morning in the garden. She’d been deeply moved by the story of how the two lovers had met, and was anxious to hear what happened next, how Georgia had overcome her parents’ disapproval. Her grandmother had rather hinted that their journey was fraught with difficulties, but said that even had they known at the time quite how traumatic it would be, they still would not have been able to resist seeing each other again. Somehow, Chrissie must find a way to persuade her to tell the rest of her story, although what any of this might have to do with the family feud she really had no idea.

As she helped prune and cut back overgrown shrubs, Chrissie worried over that vital piece of information she was keeping from her. How would she explain her neglect
in not revealing who she really was? And what if her grandmother was so angry with her for the lie, she threw her out of the house, as she’d done with Vanessa? Why would she treat a granddaughter better than her own daughter?

This morning, while they battled with weeds, Chrissie was trying to find some way to approach the subject obliquely while agonising over doing so against Vanessa’s wishes. Georgia interrupted her thoughts.

‘I do admire your determination, your courage in going on,’ the old woman commented, barely pausing in her labours as she dumped barrow-loads of weeds on to a garden bonfire. ‘It’s not easy going on with life when you’ve lost the man you love. I do hope your time here has helped you to find the way forward. Now that you’ve come through that first fog of grief and can start to think clearly again. Living in the past and relying on others isn’t really an answer. Too much sympathy can be very debilitating.’

‘Oh, I do agree, it all becomes almost self-indulgent if you’re not careful. People would either shower me with pity – oh, poor dear Chrissie – or else relate their own loss, of which there has been no shortage during the war. But grieving is something you need to do alone, in your own way. There’s nothing anyone can do to help.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘In any case, I don’t find it easy to share my feelings with anyone. For weeks, months, I was unable to sleep or eat, or even think clearly,’ Chrissie admitted. ‘I went
through the motions of living while inside I was dead too. I never want to feel that way ever again.’ To her horror Chrissie found tears filling her eyes as she remembered the pain of hearing that Tom, the man she’d imagined she would love for ever and grow old with, was dead. Losing him had broken her heart.

‘None of us do, dear.’ Her grandmother had taken off her old straw hat and was making a great play of wafting the smoke from the bonfire away, as if that were to blame for her tears. ‘People can be very kind and well meaning, but they do expect you to get better after a given period of time, as if pain ever ends.’

‘Oh, that is so true,’ Chrissie said, sniffing at her tears. ‘And I found making decisions incredibly hard. Still do, after three years, yet I feel it’s time I did.’

Georgia offered her a large white hanky to wipe her eyes as she led Chrissie to a garden bench. ‘I’m sure you will succeed very well. Deciding to make a big change in your life is always difficult, but if something feels right in your heart, in your soul, then you have to go with it. You have to be true to yourself.’

Chrissie looked up at her in surprise, about to say that was what Ben had said, but her grandmother’s gaze had turned inward. She sat in silence for some long moments – which Chrissie didn’t feel she should break – cloaked in memories as old people tended to do. Then she seemed to shake herself out of the reverie and looked about her, as if to remind herself where she was.